


Thank You

by westingwood



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:12:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2045568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westingwood/pseuds/westingwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's only been a few months after Magnussen and already Sherlock's getting pulled out of a drug den, but not by John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank You

**Author's Note:**

> It's a short little piece, gained whilst washing dishes. Enjoy.

"It hasn't even been a few months and already you went back to that den." Jim took the key from Sherlock's hand and opened the door to the flat, allowing the both of them inside. "You're lucky that you're not a pair of shoes right now." The angry undertone in his voice was undeniable.

"Did you ever actually-" Sherlock continued across the room to slump down in the black chair, ignoring the still-ajar door "-do that?"

"Make human shoes? Oh yes. Honestly, not as comfortable as I thought they would be. Hard to dye." He turned and walked down the hall to the bathroom, rummaging around through the shelves.

"You knew where I was," said Sherlock in an almost monotonous voice.

"Couldn't have you flatlining in an old warehouse somewhere." Below the conversation, running water could be heard.

"Why not? Leave me to die." He raised his arm and gave a wave of his hand. "Tragic overdose. Read it in the papers Sunday morning." He paused for a moment, his face scrunching up a bit. "Drug den."

"Examples' sake, Sherlock. Use it." Jim emerged from the bathroom, holding a damp cloth, a comb and a coat. "They're coming here in five hours." He then went to the kitchen and, opening the freezer, took an icepack out.

"John?"

"Yes, your live-in. And his wife...Mary, right? Five hours, Sherlock." He sat down in front of him, placed everything on the floor, and with his hand on the side of Sherlock's head, turned it slightly left, his eyes locking on a purple welt on his cheek. "And you look a bit shit right now."

"Obviously." He recoiled slightly at Jim touching the still-sore bruise. "I feel like it."

"That's your high talking." He took the still-damp cloth and ran it over Sherlock's forehead, picking up a spot of dirt. "Drugs. The second-worst invention known to man, and yet-" he dabbed at another spot on his face "-you still use them. Why do you want to be ordinary?"

"Bored."

"Go after me then, if you are _sooo_ bored." Jim rolled his eyes on the _sooo_. "When I said that ordinary people are boring, I really meant it. You really want to _be_ one of them? Like John?"

"Why do you care about what he sees? After-"

"Just keeping the game going is all I did." He wrapped the cloth around the ice pack and pressed it against the purple spot on Sherlock's cheek. "Six hours old?"

"Seven and a half."

"I wish I didn't know the story behind that already. As I was saying: keeping the game going. No worries, we'll get back to that eventually. But for now-" he paused to hand Sherlock the pack and grab the comb - "-I think we'll just keep the façade running a little bit longer."

"What façade?" He held the pack back up to his cheek, wincing a little bit.

"My death." Jim began to work at the knots in Sherlock's hair, silence falling over the room.

For a while, the flat remained almost totally silent while Jim tried to get Sherlock's hair back in order.

"So tell me. Why do you want to be ordinary?" Eventually, he was the one to break the silence.

"No."

"Not now? I'll try again later." He laid the comb down, satisfied with his work, and went to the kitchen. He took a jug and a glass laying on the counter and went to the sink, filling the jug with cold water.

"If I hear of you going back to that drug den-"

"Seven more just like it, Jim." He returned, pouring a bit of the water into the glass.

"I'll burn all eight of them. You know my point. Just...don't go back there." His voice softened a bit as he set the jug down and handed the water to Sherlock. "I can only save you so many times before one of us is seen. Or dies for real." He took the pack from Sherlock's hand and laid it on the floor. "Can't have that now, can we?" He then removed the coat from the carpet and draped it over his shoulders.

"There. You look decent enough now. Can't do anything about the bruise, I'm afraid."

"Case."

"Hmm. They'll buy that. Well, now they will, anyway."

"Thank you, Jim." Again, the words were flat and lifeless.

"You're going to ask me something."

"Why help me now?"

He raised an eyebrow. "That's not what you want to ask me. Definitely not what I want to hear."

"How'd you do it?" The same tone of voice.

Jim's lips turned up into a smile; that familiar, slightly crooked smile that Sherlock was used to seeing. "That's better." He took the empty glass from his hands and set it on the floor next to the jug. "But I can't answer that. Not until you do."

"I can't."

"Then you won't be hearing it from me." He got up and took the pack and cloth back to the kitchen, dumping them both into the sink. "At least, not now."

"When?"

He was halfway across the living room already when he turned back to Sherlock, the same smile still on his face. "You'll know."

Another short silence as Jim stopped, his vision drifting off into the middle distance.

"You're not going to remember any of this, are you?," he murmured to himself. "That's okay by me." Just as suddenly as he stopped, he turned back around towards the door. "Do you mind if I take this?" He picked a pen off of the table, tossing it between his hands. "I like gold pens."

"No ink."

"All the better." Pocketing his new possession, Jim stepped over the threshold and down the staircase, closing the door behind him.

"Thank you."

**MORNING**

A few short raps were all it took to awaken Sherlock from a fitful sleep. He knew that he was coming down off of a high. He knew he was at a den last night. He knew he never used that ice pack in the sink, that he never moved the jug, and that a pen was missing from the table. And that the side of his face was extremely sore.

"Still sleeping? Pretty quiet in there."

"Go in, Mary. Lord knows I never-oh. It's locked."

John and Mary. He got up from the chair and walked over to the door, intending to open it, preparing to play the denial game, but his attention was drawn instead to a scrap of paper, stuck to his side of the door.

He peeled it off, reading the carefully crafted handwriting:

_'You owe me one.'_

**Author's Note:**

> I must thank you for reading. This is my unofficial return to the fanfiction world, and...it went okay. I might have a bit of a thing for Sheriarty after writing this.


End file.
